


Vanity Kills

by thescouticus



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Abduction, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Invasion, Gen, Interplanetary Diplomacy, No Primary Pairing, Non-binary character, OC-centric, Or Lack Of Interplanetary Diplomacy, Other, alternating pov, mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 02:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescouticus/pseuds/thescouticus
Summary: The Grand Highblood’s team of well-trained and badass laughsassins, in charge of capturing the notorious rebel Rose Lalonde and bringing her to the Empress’s Imperial Fork, manage to bungle things significantly.And by ‘bungle’, I mean not only manage to abduct the wrong human, but also not manage to catch the mistake until they were already back onboard the Condesension, leaving the Grand Highblood with a useless human who he can’t even turn into paint because human blood ruins everything it touches.





	1. Misfortune

**Author's Note:**

> Things I Should Be Writing: Updates on my other four in-process fics  
> Things I’m Actually Writing: A New Fanfiction after being dragged into self-insert hell by my best friends
> 
> Skylar is somewhat of a self-insert, but I’m primarily writing this to work on characterization, voice, and dialogue, so I’m very much open to constructive criticism. (A change of pace from self-indulgent smut)

Being hauled off by aliens on the way out of work on a chilly, rainy evening in early spring was definitely not something that made its way into Skylar’s appointment book. Actually, it was something that, it is were possible, they would actually actively avoid doing in favor of what had actually been planned for this evening. 

Skylar thought they’d managed to successfully elbow somebody in the process of getting snatched, and maybe, maybe they’d kicked someone in the ‘nads, but they weren’t totally sure. It’d been a strange, quick sort of scramble, on a street that wasn’t know for being particularly quiet. There’d been too much going on for them to have any real, clear idea of what was going on, a shuffle of bodies, a blindfold, a gag.

It had been a normal day up until then. Well, as normal as any day in the beauty industry got, a jumble of customer service, unreasonable expectations, corrections, and the jewel of the evening, an unexpected full head of foils. The kind that took a minimum of forty-five minutes to even get the lightener on. There wasn’t anything that would’ve even set an alarm bell off for them, and that was easy enough to do. Hopefully no one would break into their car while they were gone, and their fiancé would figure out they were kidnapped before there was a bunch of parking tickets and the car got impounded. Or got a boot.

That would be the worst thing to come back to, if they made it back. To hell with the budget to put new tires on, Skylar would have to put every spare dollar into the parking tickets! Those usually generated more and more needed to resolve them as time went on. Tomorrow would be an unpleasant day as well, with clients showing up and not being able to get their hair done. Even more money lost, it wasn’t like they had that much and more to spare.

Their kidnappers were some weird-looking sons of bitches, too. They weren’t too awful good at identifying what was going on that quickly, but there was an impression of red and gold horns, clownish face paint, and grayish skin before they’d been blindfolded, hands and feet both bound. Probably because they’d been kicking too much to allow anyone to wrangle them into cooperation.

A short ride in some kind of car had followed, then more shuffling and being carried and tossed about in a confusing and not particularly gentle manner, and Skylar was fairly certain they were bruised all over by the time they felt the takeoff.

And it was definitely a takeoff, plane and helicopter rides were definitely no stranger to Skylar, having moved about several times as a Navy brat, being transported from island to mainland, island to island, long stretches over land where it was better to fly than drive or simply too long of a journey to take a teenager one-way, they knew what a takeoff felt like, and that was alarming. They were definitely going somewhere quite a ways away, and Skylar was regretting every life decision that had ever lead to going in to work that morning.

The ride in whatever air-vehicle was long enough for Skylar to stop being panicked, and start being a little more reasonable, remembering what they could of the limited self-defense training they’d had. Wiggling around in the space, trying to get the blindfold off, managing to get their hands in front of them instead of behind. Thank God for Yoga. They mapped out that they were in a barren, slightly rough space, fairly small, not quite tall enough to sit up without bumping their head, a little longer than they were tall. It was too dark to see anything, eyes even doing that thing where it created a phantom hand.

There wasn’t a lot to report on for the flight, a lot of silence, a little bit of two voices as they seemed to pass down a hallway. They freeze, thinking they’ve come back to check, but no one attempts to give Skylar a hard time about anything, or even check on them, so they must trust the space to hold them. It’s too dark to determine what the door looks like from the inside, so that can wait.

Free of the blindfold, they’re working on the gag when they’re thrown bodily across the small space, and there’s a huge rumbling of metal parts and a WHUMP as, presumably, they’ve either crashed, or gotten where this ship is going.

It’s unlike any landing Skylar has experienced before, but it’s not accompanied by any alerts or flashing lights or screaming in terror, it’s all quiet in the cabin until someone yanks them out, complaining about the lack of blindfold and the fact that they’ve gotten their arms free.

It’s an alien, alright. The alien has horns protruding from its head, shifting from red to yellow, it’s hair is black, and looks coarse to the eye, the skin, what little they can see of it, is a deep gray, but its face is painted like a clown, with thick greasepaint. Like a genuine circus clown, or an ICP weirdo. They’d had enough of juggalos in beauty school. A classmate of theirs had ‘Juggalette’ tattooed across her chest, and had not left a particularly pleasant taste in their mouth, but that could’ve been unrelated to being an ICP fan.

The alien, or whatever it was, was speaking to the others, and it had the countenance to it, the slow music, like a Southern Baptist minister. Only peppered with curses. It waves something into Skylar’s eyes, and it flashes, then a screen brightens up. But it does speak English. Curious.

It swears again, an irritable, “Motherfucker.” And hands off the device to another alien, who’s also displeased, as Skylar sits, looking at them both, confused. The first hauls them up, and oh-those weren’t handcuffs like they’d ever seen before. They don’t get much time to inspect the cuffs, because the alien disconnects one, and hauls Skylar’s arms up behind their back again, and then the blindfold goes back on.

“You can walk, if you quit tryin’ to kick a brother in the bulge. Or I can just keep you tied up. If you’re willin’ to not be a pain in my ass, I’ll untie your walkstubs.” The alien asks, and Skylar nods. They really do need to move their legs. They also need a bathroom pretty badly, but that’s for another time, apparently.

It’s less than a second that their ankles are freed and they feel a damn cold hand on their lower back, just above the cuffs. “Now you just keep on moving like I tell you to or this ain’t gonna be very pleasant on your end.” It tells them, and they believe it.

A left, a right, another left. They loose track pretty quickly. It almost sounds like an old science-fiction set, the sound of doors opening and closing, the occasional clicking noise. The alien is silent, and Skylar’s gagged, though they want to ask a million questions about where they are, why their here specifically, why the aliens speak English and not another language, what do they eat, but they’re fucking gagged. But it feels good, after the long trip, to walk.

Finally the alien slows down, and uncuffs them, still holding their wrists. Only this time they pull Skylar slowly into a chair, and their wrists get cuffed to either side of it. Ankles next, to either leg of the chair. Finally the blindfold comes off, then the gag.

“What’s the deal with-“ They begin, but the alien shakes, presumably his, head, and heads directly out of the room. It’s like a crime show interrogation room, barren aside from a table, another chair, and a mirror. Presumably a two-way mirror, so aliens could keep an eye on them. 

Wow, yikes. That sure is a wrecked face of makeup right there. All the setting spray in the world apparently did not help being bandied about by aliens. Their hair also needs some dealing with, but that’s not really possible with exactly zero free hands.

The table is kind of weird, but not anything to write home about, same with the chair. The chair Skylar’s in provides another example of the cuffs, and they eyeball them with considerable curiosity.

They’re softer than metal, don’t have the sheen of plastic, and seem to be built-in to the chair. Maybe the cuffs are some kind of silicone or jelly material? But why would that be an advantage over metal or plastic or even a heavy fabric.

But there’s only so much to stare at with access to any other angle or the locking mechanism. It’s not long before Skylar is simply bored, looking at the inside of this one room. The door wasn’t all that interesting without it opening, and the mirror was kind of embarrassing to stare at.

Finally, they get bored enough to start asking questions of the Void. “I have so many questions, and would sure like them answered. I’d also sure like to go to the bathroom. I don’t know what information I have that could possibly be useful for you, but you really didn’t need to tie me to a chair to get it.”

They’re mid-question when the door finally hisses open without warning. The alien coming through has to duck to make it in the doorframe with its long, almost corkscrew-shaped horns. That would be why the ceilings were so tall, then.

Otherwise it’s hair was almost more of a wreck than Skylar’s own. It’s paint was a fearsome snarl with pointy teeth, a purple-and-Black ensemble with the- was that the Capricorn symbol on it? That was weird. It had the general air of being carnival-inspired, but that was also weird.

“Why am I here?” Skylar asks, trying to look as innocent as possible. It’s not like your average hairdresser has a whole lot to do with aliens or the military or technology or infrastructure or anything that would actually be useful.

Instead of an answer, he starts pulling things out and setting them across the table. It’s the contents of Skylar’s work bag, the giant tote they use to carry stuff they need to carry back and forth. Hair dryer, flat iron, appointment book. Cash box, card readers, wallet. The huge alien flips through both, raising brows at the lock on the cash box. Keychain including all the random crap on it. A peacock keychain, the little Gir figure, the tiny flogger given to them as a joke gift.

“Name, human.” He finally says, and his voice has that same gospel lilt, but his voice is much, much deeper, a little gravelly. 

With speaking habits that are restricted to blank silence, rebellious silence, infodumping, and foot-in-mouth, there’s only one proper answer. “You were just going through my wallet, you know my name.”

He pulls out the chair, and leans back in it., crossing his arms. “Now, here I thought we might be making a motherfucking acquaintance at each other, human. I ain’t done anything to you yet. Might fucking stay that way if you cooperate.”

Skylar scowls, But can’t really argue with that. “Skylar Quinn Schmidt. Licensed cosmetologist. Impromptu ‘nad-kicker when I need to be.”

“You did nail a brother in the bulge something fierce.” He says with a slow nod, scowling back, but in a blanker sort of way. Detached. His people, but not particularly his problem.

“I thought I was getting mugged.” Skylar defends themself, shrugging as much as they can in the awkward chair. “You’d kick a weird clown in the junk, too, if they came out of nowhere and kidnapped you.”

“So hostile,” He shakes his head a bit, as if disappointed, “What did clowns ever do to you?”

“As a general rule, I fear and despise clowns on a molecular level.” Skylar informs him, as blunt and straightforward as had always gotten them into serious trouble or gotten coworkers to burst into tears of laughter under the right circumstances.

These are, apparently, the right circumstances, because a grin stretches across the alien’s face, and he chuckles a few times. “That’s just the way it should motherfucking be, human.”

“And what about you?” Skylar is going to take full advantage of the fact that the clown apparently has some kind of sense of humor, which goes well with their own foot-in-mouth gene. “What’s your name? I’ll just make up something if you don’t tell me. Clownfucker has a nice ring about, don’t you think?”

He leans forward, tall enough to loom over the table, shadows falling and making his face look ghoulish. Suddenly calling him ‘Clownfucker’ isn’t quite so funny anymore. “You got the privilege of speaking to the _Grand Motherfucking Highblood of the Holy Church_.”

Skylar leans away a little, mouth pursing in distaste. “That’s a hell of a mouthful...” They manage, turning their face away. The Grand Motherfucking Highblood, on top of being about as scary as their father, has some rank motherfucking breath. “I revise Clownfucker to Clown Pope.”

This, he seems almost offended by. “Does the Pope strike fear into the hearts of all beneath him, paving the way to wicked salvation with their blood for his brethren?”

Skylar blinks once, twice. Purses their lips, and slowly nods as the information registers. “That’s fair enough. I mean, the Middle Ages were weird, but today the Pope is more of a figurehead like... Shaking hands, and kissing babies, and... Well, moving pedophiles around to protect them from the law. Clownfucker it is.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, either displeased or hiding a smile, it’s hard to tell between the face paint and his general stolidness. You’d need to know this guy for years before you’d be able to fully read him. Skylar can’t stand the silence that falls.

“So, Clownfucker, Why am I even here? And when do I get to go home?” They ask, hopeful around the edges.

“You say that like we’re planning on returning you.” He says, back to the stoic stares. It is uncomfortable.

“Well, isn’t that how it usually works?” They ask, squirming a little in their seat under the scrutiny. They would like to go home. “You pick up a human, run some weird alien testing, maybe a little anal probage, then you set me down in the middle of a crop circle with nothing but the clothes on my back and a story full of holes to tell the authorities?”

“Maybe in human media.” He scoffs, snorting through his nose. “I’ve conquered a lot of motherfucking planets in my time, little human. Once the Empress is done, all motherfucking humans will be slaves, most of them killed, but some to harvest the planet’s resources before they’re culled. A few might make it off-planet if they’re useful otherwise.”

God, this exchange is like something out of a cartoon or a movie, or a dream, like one of those ones where there was a plot that made no sense with enemies that kept changing.

“Useful otherwise?” They raise an eyebrow. The Grand Highblood has said all of this without much care. Oh god, this is like a bad movie. They’ve gotta be dreaming and this is the weird lull.

He inspects his fingernails, which are more like claws. A lot more like claws. “Most will get off-planet will just be pailslaves for those with more exotic tastes. Maybe you’ll get lucky if you got some kinda bitchtits wicked alien hole in you for a brother to get his bulge in.”

Something sinks into Skylar’s brain, even in advance of the fact that any humans who make it out will be... Whores for aliens. This alien used the term trolls. As in internet trolls. This had to be a dream.

“Oh man, you guys call yourselves trolls.” They say, shaking their head mildly. “Man, it’s been a while since I had a dream this vivid. Thank you, Prozac, it’s been weird, but I am ready to wake up now-“

A solid, cold hand strikes them across the face.

This is most definitely not a dream, because the pain of the blow starts to creep up on them. They prepare for the rest of the pain, but their brain is already whirring. Because there is pain, they’re not dreaming this. They can feel the burn of the handprint spreading across their face, coming up bright and red.

As the pain fully sinks in, throbbing on the right side of their face, eye starting to ooze tears, it sinks in, and they start to truly wonder. When they speak, it’s forcibly level and clear, because if they start to lose voice they will start to cry. “Why am I here?”

There’s a long pause, as the Grand Highblood stares them down, seeming to consider things carefully, probably watching the handprint appear on their face as they breathe careful and deep. Then he shrugs. “We got a bad tip. Another human’s been making up a lotta trouble for the Empress, and we were meant to snuff it out for her.”

“So let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Not that anyone would believe me, I’m on psych meds.” They look up for some hope of freedom, if they were the wrong person, the aliens might let them go back home to their comfy bed and their fiancé and their prescriptions. They were on brain drugs, no one would believe that they weren’t crazy, they would just pretend it never happened.

But those hopes are crushed, “Sorry human. Empress’s orders. Can’t just let you run off and make things difficult for our Empress here.” He says, matter-of-fact and uninterested in the discussion. “After the Empress’s inquision, I’m free to deal with you as I please.”

Skylar gulps audibly at the prospect of the. It didn’t take a genius to figure out this guy was a badass motherfucker who could probably crush their skull in one hand. Not that there was much to crush, they’d always been on the shrimper side. There was the other possibilities, too. They’d heard the ‘exotic taste’ line, and had no desire to be intimate with anyone but their own fiancé, regardless of any general curiosity about the xenobiology involved here.

“I’m not going to fuck you, if that’s what you’re trying to tell me. I have no idea how your biology works and I’m engaged to be married anyway.” They say, an unreasonable demand for someone in that situation, but a demand nonetheless. They were usually lucky at making unreasonable requests from people they had no business requesting things from.

“Didn’t say nothing about fucking you yet.” He replies, looking Skylar over with a critical eye. Immediately it makes them feel like a bug under a microscope. “Though I know Brother Khalaz had a ganderbulb on you, and he ain’t known to have bad taste.”

“Well, Brother Khalaz is gonna have to go unsatisfied because I’m more than willing to kick more aliens in the dick if I need to.” Skylar is quick to defend, sharp-tongued under the displeasure of the situation. They’re not exactly kidding, but they know of their general inability to keep that up for very long. A beauty industry job didn’t exactly prepare one for kickboxing to protect from alien rapists for any great length of time.

They stare up at the Grand Highblood determined to bore a hole through his skull, or at least his pancake-thick makeup, when they spot the twitch.

The enormous alien suddenly bursts into a bellow, shaking the room as he slaps a hand down onto the table in his sudden good humor, shaking his head with it, nearly giving Skylar a heart attack with the sudden mood whiplash. 

“... Why are you laughing?”


	2. The Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first part of a two-chapter duo I felt was required for the purposes of comedic timing. The other half should go up Monday night.
> 
> In Which the Empress and the Hairdresser Reach an Agreement

The Grand Highblood simply walks out of the room, laughing, at the questions the human is asking now. It’s got exactly jack and shit that would protect it if the family were so inclined as to take their pleasure from it, but it’s got the spirit, and enough head on its shoulders to back off when he’s not finding its insubordinate comments quite so funny anymore.

The Empress, on the other hand, has enough head on her shoulders to know she’ll win in any showdown he might provoke out of her, vain and fickle she may be. It’s her whimsy that means he hadn’t gotten the chance to simply rid himself of the burden of the human and dump it in the airlock. Instead, she’s behind the mirror, flipping through the human’s shitty alien palmhusk device with a critical eye, lips pursed in contemplation. 

She’s flipping through a series of humans, and it takes him a minute to realize they’re the same humans, once with bare faces, and the next with their faces painted all up to the human standard. All of them look much closer to the human standard of prettiness with the makeup on. He’s assuming they’re humans that it’s done as part of its job. She flips through the hair, as well, and it all looks a lot different from when they started, though he has no fucking idea if it’s better.

It dawns on him what his vain, fickle Empress wants it for.

“Meenah, fuck no.” He tells her, snatching the palmhusk out of her claws. There’s no need for a human onboard ship, especially one that ain’t useful for shit but pampering the Empress like a pale concubine.

She grins, showing all her fangs at him, and yanks the palmhusk back. “I can protect myshellf from one soft human, Clownfish.”

“Ain’t fucking like you to get taken with the spoils of war.”

“Swimtimes a gill wants to taste somefin a lil exotic in her pampering.” She shrugs off his concern, clicking away in her deceptively delicate-looking shoes. “You keep giving me sass, I’m gonna put you in charge of taking care of it, Clownfish.”

That shuts him up real quick, and he follows her back into the tiny talkblock, filled with only one thing of any interest, and that barely qualifies as any interest, considering it’s the human he’s been trying to get out of his hair. It’s been done being scared for a bit, but the suspicion directed at the empty room wasn’t funny enough for him to consider paying it any attention. The Empress already has shit to put on her face, Gods knew she had enough pink glitter on her lips to signal a ship, but trolls had shit to do a hell of a lot more important than making up elaborate face-paint routines.

But Meenah is vain and petty and she gets what she wants. Even if it’s pretty human pets to doll her up like the humans did to each other in a weird, money-driven mockery of moiraillegence.

It jumps nearly a foot in the air when Meenah throws the door open without warning, and squeaks, but it doesn’t speak, it just stares at her, then him, then her again for several long moments.

“Uh...” It manages, at last as Meenah takes her time letting it stew in its unspoken questions as she gets herself situated, propping herself up on one arm, perched with her ass on the platform.

“Got some questions for ya, human.” 

“Okay?” It cocks it’s head quizzically, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “I probably have answers for you, if they’re questions I can even answer.”

“How’d ya do all that pretty warpaint in all those pictures? Ain’t even look like paint in half of them, just looks better, it’s shella impressive.” The Empress asks her, leaning in with her teeth on display again, making the human lean back in its seat, looming over it.

It blinks a moment, then shrugs. “Well, part of it’s using the right products, making sure you’re using good stuff that’s going to do what you want it to do, like using mattifying or hydrating products on certain skin types, liquids versus powders, part of it’s techniques to blend and smooth and layer, you shouldn’t put cream or liquid over powder for instance, it makes it all weird, and part of it’s knowing how to use makeup to enhance or downplay certain facial features.”

“You can use light and shadow and color to make the face more pleasing from a biological and cultural point of view, making the eyes appear to be more symmetrical, using highlight to make better features pop and features you’re not so fond of recede into the background, adding more dimension onto the face, making eyes and lips look more pronounced, that kind of thing. And you can experiment and have fun and cover yourself in glitter if that’s more your style.”

“So you’d say you’re pretty good at it?”

“Well, yeah. It’s my job. You can do the same thing with hair color, cut, and style.” It’s Head is still cocked, it’s still puzzled, but it’s face has smoothed out, and it’s relaxing. It’s a little wordy, but he can understand the gist of it. The family likes playing in paints plenty, though the Grand Highblood’s been out of his experimenting phase for what feels like a millenia of sweeps. One needs to know how to produce the most terrifying and indiscernible visage.

“How about skin, you ever done any of that?”

“Well, we learned in beauty school, but I haven’t done much of that since. I use a pretty specific and specialized skincare routine, but that’s cause my flesh hates everything-“

Meenah cuts her off in the middle of the sentence. “Can you rub lotion onto a face or nah?”

“I-“ it stutters, seeming to have to reload its thinkpan before continuing. “Yeah, I can rub lotion on a face.”

If it were one of his brothers or sisters, the Highblood would have absolutely forbade a pale alien concubine, or at least her forward advances, but she’s not. Instead, she’s a pain in his ass and a thousand times more powerful than he is. So he doesn’t scold her for goading an alien into being her unwitting minimal-strings palemate.

“Got a deal for ya, if you’re finterested.” Her eyes briefly look over the human, and it squirms a little under that gaze, no doubt thinking over the more unsavory things the Empress could offer.

“... What kind of deal?” It asks, suspicious. He can’t really blame it, it’s got plenty of reason to be, Meenah is being shifty as hell and more than a little unsettling.

“You keep my face and hair on fucking fleek for everyfin I gotta do to keep this empire afloat, and in exchange,” Meenah briefly cocks her head towards Grand Highblood, “You keep swimming and don’t end up more paint for my painted-up Clownfish here.”

It gives her the blank look that they’re beginning to get used to from it, when some’s said something that took it off-guard, before it finally responds. “That doesn’t sound bad, I mean, it’s my job, but I need a whole bunch of stuff that I don’t have with me in order to do that for you.”

“You ain’t goin’ back to Earth.” She states firmly. “No fuckin’ way.”

“Alright...” It’s eyes flit from left to right and back, trying to think of a solution. “I don’t really know if you’ve got Space Amazon, but if you’ve got... Somewhere to ship it to, and you’re willing to spend the money on professional-grade makeup and hair products, I guess you can order them online...”

“Money ain’t no object when it comes to my face, gillfrond.” Meenah’s long claws begin to tap on the table, impatient.

The human gives in, as if it’s convincing is done, albeit its face still reeling of confusion and skepticism. “Alright, if you’re willing to spend the money so that I can do my job right, I guess you have a cosmetologist on-retainer.”

 

The Empress’s nails stop clicking in impatience, and she pushes herself off the table with her massive hair trailing behind her, swaying her way back to the door, mission apparently accomplished. Just before she heads out the door, she pauses, and a grin spreads across her face.

“Clownfish, you make shore my lil grouper here gets what’s needed, yourshellf. Limited clearance should be fin, ain’t like it’s got need to go watering ‘round the ship hookin’ for trouble.”

Then, she waves her overmanicured claws goodbye, and slips away, clicking off into the distance in her heels, the door sliding shut automatically behind her.

Both of them stare at the door for a long moment, processing what just happened. The human looks at him. He looks back at the alien. They both look back at where their overbearing Empress has disappeared to.

“Uh...” The human, eyebrows up near its hairline, confused and alarmed, starts, and then leaves whatever statement that was meant to be unfinished.

The Grand Highblood, terror to lowbloods and aliens alike, sighs and rests his palm in his face for a long moment, feeling the beginnings of a headache before he carries out the wishes of his Empress.


	3. Cryptic Clown Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It went up the Monday after. I have nothing to say for myself.

Before Skylar can get to that apparently unlimited budget, which, they can admit they are at least a little excited about, the Grand Highblood turns his attention back to them, putting his stern face back on. He eyes Skye as if in a new light, eyes narrowed suspiciously at them.

“The Empress may want you for her own vain reasons, but don’t get comfortable, human. You ain’t gonna be laying’ in her state quarters on a cushion eating dainty morsels from out her claws.” He gives them a stern, unhappy sort of eyeballing. Skylar looks away, trying not to be too intimidated.

They have to trot to keep up with his pace, as he takes off down the hall without a thought whether or not they could keep up or if they were following him. He stubbornly answers no questions until they’ve gone through several doors, with the Grand Highblood sweeping something over a security thing of some sort by every door.

“Ain’t got time or inclination to take you to each meal like you’re an incompetent grub. You’ll have access to your own quarters, and the lowblood’s nutritionblock. If you want more than that, you’ll have to set it up with her Condescension.” He pauses a moment, “Actually, ask her for access to her secondary ablutionblock. Then I don’t have to fuckin take you there.”

He finally turns out of the eerily identical hallways, into what looks like an office of some sort, staffed by a herd of desks, and the sort of people who run tech centers, even if they did have gray skin and horns instead of being generally pasty and lacking in muscle mass.

It seemed to perform the exact same functions as a cellular phone, and more, but the troll who hurriedly scanned their fingers and eyes was short with them, and apparently had far too much to do to bother explaining it to them in any kind of detail. And the thing did not, as far as Skylar could tell, have an “English” option.

They also may or may not have screamed when the spiny legs of the palmhusk grabbed the hand holding it, and had to glare at the techie’s snort.

Asking the Grand Highblood was equally fruitless, he knew how to use the messaging system and how to use it to open doors and what-not, but no idea how to change the settings. When they asked about the possibility of being a way to even change the settings, he gave them a blank stare, the same kind of stare their boss had tended to give them when confronted with anything beyond using the same sort of technology on a human device.

With device finally in-hand, apparently only able to open their intended room and the consumption block, which they took to mean the galley or mess, since it was on a ship, even if the ship was in space. They could request entrance to the Grand Highblood’s chambers, but he would have to let them in manually. He explained all of this while stalking down the hall, mood having apparently only gotten worse as time went on, a pace that Skye had to trot to keep up with, only coming up to his chest.

The good part was that they got to carry their own shit around, so they still had their bag of supplies, and had access to the emergency stash, for when the Grand Highblood dropped them off at what was apparently their room, face stern and disapproving. “You stay right the fuck here, I got shit to do before I can even think on you more than I already done.”

The first thing they do is pull out their handy-dandy bag of wet wipes and get rid of the makeup, wiping off most of the day. They weren’t a prisoner, exactly, so they might be able to wheedle their way into a halfway-decent skincare regimen, though they had no idea what Troll skincare was like, compared to human. It could be fine, it could be disastrous.

Poking around at the various buttons on the ‘palmhusk’ proved to be only mildly entertaining for a short while. With no idea what the words meant, opening any application was a gamble, though the camera app, the map, and the web browser, or whatever their equivalents were called by trolls were reasonably obvious.

 

It was a fairly long time before they were interrupted by another clown, long enough for Skye to have become bored with the fruitless poking around, and actually begin exploring the room. One corner held a large tub of slightly unpleasant-smelling bright green slime of indeterminate purpose, there was a desk, which had the same rounded shapes that all the furniture seemed to have on the ship, and something that sort of vaguely resembled a chair.

The bathroom- ablutionblock, he had called it- had the same sort of vaguely rounded, almost-organic feel about it that made it even more unsettling. But there was a toilet, sink, and tub, as far as they could tell. 

They were about to have a seat at the desk, when the door slid open without warning, startling them out of their boredom. Another clown in facepaint, not one they’d seen before, shoved another into the small room wordlessly. They were going to ask what was going on, when the clown simply...

... Walked off?

The troll who’d been shoved into their room was trembling, on the brink of tears, but tried to get a hold of herself, sniffling a little. She pushed her hair back behind her ear, and smoothed out her clothes, as Skylar turned their eyes toward her, not quite sure what to make of the situation.

“Uh, hey?” Skye finally broke the silence, unable to just sit there and awkwardly watch this alien girl cry in their own new room.

“I’m sorry about that.” The alien finally said, giving Skylar an exceptionally fake smile. “I’m Reilie, I suppose I’m to show you about. I was merely a bit startled, as I was pulled away from my usual duties. It won’t happen again.”

Skylar eyed her for a moment, brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I’m Skylar, I was a hairdresser, but I guess I’m the Empress’s cosmetologist-on-retainer now?”

Realization dawns in the troll’s eyes, and she nods, her shoulders relaxing a little. Whether its from the knowledge of the purpose, or from Skylar’s lack of further manhandling and equal confusion, it’s unclear. The smile is a little less fake when she says, “Oh! I’ll lead you to the Empress’s secondary ablutionblock, then. It’s almost ready for Her Condesension’s use. I was waiting on the salinity and temperature adjustment when I was sent to come here.”

Reilie turns her head, checking the outside hallway nervously. If Skylar didn’t see her forced into the room, she would have almost guess the girl wasn’t even supposed to be here. Was this something weird, like the servants weren’t supposed to be seen, like during the Victorian era? The girl looked like she needed something to calm her nerves, but there was nothing Skylar could do about it right now.

Skylar, having not a great deal more pressing to do, rises and pulls their boots back on. The floor wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either, and they didn’t want to step on anything weird. “... Alright. Show me where we’re going, then, Reilie.”

Reilie looks around at the hallway again, and then quickly makes her way down it, and Skylar follows, palmhusk in hand, the door sliding shut behind them. It’s a little creepy. The girl in front of her keeps her head down, and it’s the most obvious display of trying not to draw attention to herself that Skylar’s even seen, as she shrinks back against the wall when they finally encounter another troll, giving the guy the majority of the hallway to himself.

Skylar can keep up with this one, as she’s not much taller than Skylar in their boots, in what Skylar is assuming is some kind of uniform for servants, trimmed in brick red, a logo in the same color across her back. 

They turn down another hallway, and the girl looks vastly less uncomfortable, and another, and Skylar loses track of the too-similar hallways, the too-weird rounded corridors that all smell weird, but the same.

There’s an exact moment when Skylar knows they’ve entered the Empress’s personal quarters, and it’s when they see the ceiling open up, giving way to a vaulted ceiling that you could probably stack two Grand Highbloods In with room to spare. But the secondary ablutionblock?

Well, Skylar didn’t know what she expected an alien Empress’s second bathroom to look like, but it wasn’t that.


End file.
